“I’ve come to return what I took,” Riltana called up. “None of this is his fault.”
The white-robed figure focused his eyes on Riltana. “Demascus defended you. And between you, you killed several Norjah enforcers beyond the recall of even their graves. Lady Ascension witnessed it. The deva will share your punishment.”
“Lord,” said Ethred, his voice small. “They say Lady Ascension fell.” The figure stiffened.
Oh great, thought Demascus. Maybe I shouldn’t have let that detail slip. “Lord Kasdrian, we’re not your foes. We’re here to return what was taken, and to offer apologies. It was not Riltana’s intention to bring strife to your home. But I’m afraid it’s true; Lady Ascension is no more, though it was not through our doing.”
The figure slumped. But not in grief, as Demascus first thought. Kasdrian threw off his hood, and the pale genasi features, overly developed canines and all, were writ large with relief. “That’s the first good news I’ve heard in months,” he said, then laughed. The echoes chased the bats around the high columns.
“I don’t understand. Isn’t she your agent?” said Demascus.
“Lady Ascension was thrust upon me. She was a conniver, an agent of another power. I’d have slain her myself if I could’ve gotten away with it cleanly, without her peers being the wiser.”
“The Rune Court,” said Chant. ‘Who’re they?’ I asked the lady, and she as much as confirmed the court is part of the Twisted Rune. Which I’ve heard of, even though they’re supposed to be secret …”
Kasdrian let his regard fall on the pawnbroker. Chant blanched.
Demascus raised his hands. “We don’t really care, do we, Chant? No, we don’t. Good enough that we haven’t further hurt our relationship with House Norjah. Right?”
Chant nodded. The pawnbroker’s insatiable thirst for secrets made him a good ally, but right now he was antagonizing a stranger with his incessant questions.
Kasdrian studied Chant with narrowed eyes a moment longer. “If you don’t know, I’ll not be the one to enlighten you. Let’s just say that with Ascension’s death, and your return of the paintings, perhaps we can come to an accord.”
Riltana said, “I only—”
“Show the nice noble the painting, won’t you, Riltana?” said Demascus. If Kasdrian saw one, he might take the news better that they didn’t have both.
The windsoul nodded. She made a wide gesture, and suddenly clutched the ornately framed painting she’d shown Demascus in the shadow tower. She angled it up so the lord of House Norjah could see the figure illustrated on the canvas.
“The Thief,” said Kasdrian, “Always the one most likely to be stolen. Because it wants to be.” He sighed. “But I’m glad to see it back where it belongs.”
Riltana leaned the painting down by the wall, face toward the wall. Ethred shuffled over to protect it.
Kasdrian appeared in the foyer pit, between Riltana and Demascus. If not for the breath of dank air that blew Demascus’s hair back, the deva would have thought Kasdrian had stepped between shadows instantaneously. But no—the vampire was just fast. Faster than Lady Ascension. Too fast to see. Faster even than me?
“And the other missing Whispering Child?” said the noble, his red eyes on Riltana.
“Interesting story, that,” said the windsoul, sidling away, but finding her back against a paneled wall. “I didn’t take it.”
“Which is interesting,” continued Demascus. This close, he appreciated that Kasdrian was tall. At least six and a half feet. “Because Riltana was lured here, having been told she’d find something in House Norjah’s gallery she’s been hunting. Lured here by someone called Madri. Do you know her?”
“Never heard of her. Who’s she?”
The charm hanging from his single braid didn’t so much as quiver. The vampire lord was telling the truth. Damn. Swallowing disappointment, Demascus continued, “She’s an old acquaintance of mine, someone I haven’t seen in … decades. But she or someone impersonating her sent Riltana to look for a mundane painting of Akanûl’s last regent. Which I assume you don’t have?”
“Cyndra? No. That old hag was nothing but trouble. Besides, my gallery is for a very special set of paintings. You say this Madri lured you,” he returned his attention to the windsoul, “here?”
She nodded.
“And you found your way to the gallery and took the Thief. How convenient.”
“Which I’ve just returned.”
Kasdrian waved that off. “But you claim you didn’t take the Necromancer. Now, tell me true, no evasions.” Kasdrian’s eyes fastened on Riltana’s.
The windsoul stiffened. She said in a strained voice, “I said I didn’t take it!”
“I believe you,” said Kasdrian, and shuttered the fire of his gaze. Without the red light burning there, Kasdrian’s eyes were green.
The thief took a relieved breath.
“But someone took the Necromancer the same night as this piece went on walkabout. Perhaps the person who stole it was, who’d you say, Madri? Maybe she lured this poor suggestible windsoul to my home as a distraction. While my hunters and Lady Ascension left to give chase, your long-absent friend helped herself to the Whispering Child specializing in all things undead.”
THE CITY OF AIRSPUR, AKANÛL
19 LEAFFALL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
ALL THINGS UNDEAD?” REPEATED DEMASCUS.
“Just so,” said Kasdrian. “The Necromancer. One of the most dangerous of the Whispering Children. This one,” he pointed to the painting Riltana had produced, “knows nearly all there is about thieving. But the Necromancer knows a dangerous sum about reanimating flesh and spirit. Moreover, the Necromancer is somewhat … temperamental.”
Oh great, thought Demascus. Madri’s vengeful ghost is going to empower itself using the Necromancer. Was that what she was planning?
As if reading his mind, Kasdrian said, “Why would your acquaintance want such a thing?”
“I honestly don’t know,” said Demascus. Which was true—despite his speculation, what did he really know for certain? Damn little. “Besides, it’s only your guess that Madri was the one who took it.”
Kasdrian spread his hands and said, “It’s the simplest answer that fits the facts.”
“What are the Whispering Children?” said Chant. “Who painted them and imbued them with such power?”
Kasdrian shimmered and was gone. Demascus followed the direction of his whipping hair and saw the vampire back in the high chair, grinning. The portrait of the Thief leaned against the chair’s side. This time, instead of seeming impressively scary, the noble’s antics struck Demascus as just this side of childish. But how much more childish was his own urge to lean into a shadow and show Kasdrian he wasn’t the only one able to move with such alacrity? He shook his head; the lord of House Norjah was probably only going easy on them because he thought they were too far beneath him. He didn’t want to disabuse the vampire of that attitude. Or, mused Damascus, it could be that the noble was still riding high on the news of Lady Ascension’s fall, and in that glow, was willing to entertain even thieves in his home.
When Kasdrian saw everyone had located him again, he pointed at Chant and said, “The paintings are really none of your business, are they?”
“True enough, Lord,” said Chant. “But perhaps we can barter. I am a keeper of secrets, and perhaps I know things, especially regarding current events, that you would be interested in.”
Kasdrian lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve heard of you and your network, Morven. I think we could come to some arrangement. What I know about the paintings isn’t widely known. If I tell you, you must agree to discover a secret for me. What that secret is and when I’ll demand it—next month or next year—is not subject to debate. I’ll show up on your doorstep to claim it. Is that agreeable?”
Chant gave a curt nod. “It’s the way I prefer to work.”
Kasdrian clapped his hand. “Good. Because I’m feeling magnanimous.
And really, what’s the use of an exclusive collection if no one knows its significance? Very well, Morven, I’ll tell you. But be warned; if I learn a single word of this has filtered into the ears of anyone outside this chamber, I’ll find you and suck you dry.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” said Chant. Demascus wondered if the pawnbroker took Kasdrian’s threat seriously. Hopefully. They were here to remove House Norjah from their list of foes, not gather kindling for further animosity.
“Oghma the God of Knowledge,” began Kasdrian, “had many children not long after claiming godhead.”
Demascus started upon hearing Oghma’s name on the vampire’s lips. The god of knowledge was the deva’s patron; at least, the patron of his last incarnation.
“Each child of the Binder,” continued Kasdrian, “was a demigod in its own right, and as each gained power, a handful chose to specialize their knowledge. They each pledged to learn all they could on a single topic and to master that subject. Some studied healing, some abjuring, some alchemy, some games of chance, and so on.”
Demascus reached for the charm in his hair. It was payment from the Binder of Knowledge for accepting a contract that ultimately led to Demascus’s discovery of Kalkan. In the name of all the lords of light and shadow … If the Whispering Children were Oghma’s, the situation was more than mere coincidence.
More like connivance! The deva wondered if Kasdrian knew of his connection to Oghma. Was that Kasdrian’s game? Was all of this an elaborate trap? Demascus rested a hand on the Veil, still wrapped innocently around his neck like a simple scarf. If Kasdrian tried anything, he wouldn’t find Demascus unprepared …
The vampire lord was still talking, making elaborate hand gestures illustrating his story. Demascus tried to catch up …
“The god Cyric, father of lies, was jealous of Oghma’s brood. Worse, he despised the God of Knowledge’s pride in his demigod children. So he devised a plan to lure those children away from Oghma, and so to himself. Being young and overconfident in their power, many listened when Cyric promised to deliver to each child a piece of understanding that would crown their expertise.”
“Who’d be stupid enough to believe Cyric?” said Riltana. “He’s the gods damned God of Lies!” Jaul snickered.
Kasdrian said, his voice somewhat sour, “This was long ago.”
“Go on,” urged Demascus and Chant almost in the same voice.
“Back then, Cyric’s full turpitude wasn’t universally appreciated, especially by the brash godlings. Twenty-two fell to Cyric’s deceit, and so were bound by him. Cyric forged their souls into artifacts of wonder, whose knowledge could be used against even the gods. But especially against Oghma. These were the Whispering Children. However, before he could display his creation, he was deprived of every last painting by the late Mystra, Goddess of Magic. Few deities could stand against the one who could deprive them of their access to the Weave. But when Mystra tried to revert the Whispering Children to their proper guise, the paintings were scattered far and wide, thanks to a last spiteful trick of Cyric’s.”
“Not so scattered anymore; you’ve got several,” said Riltana.
Kasdrian’s mouth stretched into a pointy-toothed predator’s grin. “Many have sought to reunite the paintings, for their own reasons. Oghma wishes to release his captured offspring. Others merely desire to learn the lore held by each Whispering Child. I … well, I am a mere art aficionado.” He laughed as if at the absurdity of his own claim.
“Yeah, I doubt you’ve ever questioned any of these for your own benefit,” said Chant, sounding jealous.
The vampire winked. “In my sixty years of collecting, I’ve hung seven of the paintings in my gallery. Because of Riltana’s break-in a few nights ago, I was down to just five. But since you’ve taken Ascension off my hands and you’ve repatriated the Thief, I’m feeling more positive about things. Despite the fact that I can no longer count the Necromancer as part of my collection.”
“Sorry about that,” said Riltana.
“Which brings me to my last point. Recover my stolen Whispering Child. Do me this favor, and House Norjah will count you as friends, not prey.”
They agreed, of course. They even gave Kasdrian the impression that finding the Necromancer would be their number one priority. Which wasn’t even entirely a lie. If Madri’s spirit was involved, Demascus wanted to know. Moreover, if a vengeful Madri had a painting whose subject was a talkative demigod of death, it was probably in his best interest to deprive her of it, the sooner the better. And … he wanted to see this woman he only remembered in storm-cloud glimpses. A woman so extraordinary that a previous version of himself had loved her. Then betrayed her.
Queen Arathane’s task remained undone, too. Unless she received actionable intelligence to argue against it, the Four Stewards would plunge Akanûl into a moronic war with Tymanther, which would only further mask a drow plot that already connected a Demonweb entrance beneath Airspur. He should probably report the portal’s existence to Queen Arathane.
But even before all of those things …
Back at his place, Demascus sniffed his bedroom. Sandalwood, mint, and orange blossom odors curled through the air, though not quite as overwhelmingly strong as he’d been going for. So he added another spoon of incense to the coal pot. The pot sat in the center of a circle he’d created by arranging his scarf on the floor and stretching it out to its full length.
The circle matched a few cryptic instructions from the Veil itself. He’d done something like this in a previous life. That time, he’d been trying to contact a god whose holy symbol was a stylized eye and whose name he could no longer recall.
It didn’t matter. The important thing was, he needed answers from Oghma. Something was very fishy. The god of knowledge hadn’t been entirely honest with the previous version of himself. Oghma had commissioned the deva’s last incarnation to heal the discord in the Binder’s church—a fancy way of requesting the assassination of the leader of a troublesome Oghmanite faction. Demascus hadn’t found the faction leader he was supposed to slay—instead, he’d been led to Kalkan, the “Swordbreaker,” the one who’d been killing each of Demascus’s previous incarnations, one after another down through the decades. Kalkan had managed to remain unnoticed by the Whorl of Ioun, the artifact upon which the deva depended to keep his continuity of ability and identity intact between lives. So Demascus never even realized he was the victim of serial murder.
Except the last time the Swordbreaker ambushed him. Thanks to what the deva had assumed was Oghma’s benevolent eye, Kalkan was finally revealed. Demascus remembered Kalkan despite losing the Whorl … or maybe because he lost it; he wasn’t clear on that point. He sometimes speculated that not finding the Whorl was the best thing that’d ever happened to him. However, he could not recover the bulk of his abilities and identity as the Sword of the Gods, except for brief moments when he could trigger an echo of the Sword’s fantastic but terrifying persona in himself.
Demascus regarded the circle. He breathed in the incense. Oghma hadn’t told him the entire truth. The god was troubled by something at least as bad as a fractious church—the god’s children were trapped in canvas prisons and being exploited by whoever could claim them. Is that really why the Binder of Knowledge had taken Demascus under his wing? To involve him, and by extension Madri, in a self-serving quest to find his Whispering Children? If so, why hadn’t Oghma merely asked the Sword of the Gods to take on that task directly? Maybe because it wasn’t a straightforward assassination … He had to know. And the cagey Veil wouldn’t answer him on the topic.
Demascus laid the bifurcated blades of Exorcessum on the floor so the points of each sword aimed at the incense pot.
And last, but most important … He unwound Oghma’s charm from his hair. He touched it to his forehead, his lips, and then clapped it between his facing palms.
“I invoke thee, by the power of Exorcessum, by the power of the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge, by the promise native to the payment y
ou vouchsafed me. Oghma, Binder of Knowledge, I call thee! Answer!”
The daylight through the drawn blinds flickered out. A roseate glow replaced it, emanating from every surface, even his normally milky skin. The house lurched. One corner of the room seemed to drop five feet. Demascus staggered as his boots lost contact with the floor. He dropped to his hands and knees, accidentally losing the charm as he scrambled for a stable surface.
The golden scroll fell like a hammer. It splintered the floor. He slapped his palms onto the hardwood planks and dug his toes into the seams. He paid for it with splinters, but avoided pitching out of the circle and into the slewed wall. The coal pot, swords, and scarf didn’t so much as shiver, as if only he was affected by the skewed orientation of reality. The pinkish light in the chamber died away until the only illumination pulsed from the scroll charm, alternating between white and red, fast as a heartbeat.
Demascus focused on the glow. Despite his suddenly rapid breathing, he was elated. All this drama and effect—his plan must be working. The light danced quicker, brighter. He squinted, as if trying to stare down the sunrise. Gradually, it occurred to him that it was more akin to peering through the keyhole into a brilliantly lit chamber. A space with pillars, grand banners, and stirring music.
Then a flutter of metallic wings obscured his image of the divine audience hall, as if something just on the other side of his tiny window had purposefully moved to obscure his view. Annoyance jabbed him.
“I seek an audience with Oghma,” he said.
The reflective feathers fluttered but continued to obstruct his view. A melodic voice echoed off the walls of his bedroom, saying, “What arrogance, world-bound creature, that you demand an audience with a god.”
Surprised tinged Demascus’s response. “I have the right! I have—”
The voice interrupted, “I admit you have a few of the implements and a scatter of memories of the Sword of the Gods. But you are not he. You are the merest shade of your previous selves. Your continuity is broken, perhaps never to be reforged.”
Sword of the Gods: Spinner of Lies Page 15
